That Most Selfish Passion
by Tenebrielle
Summary: When his worries begin to overwhelm his better judgement, Aramis is forced to reveal his indiscretion in the convent. (One shot. Spoilers for season 1.)


_A/N: Written for crazywriter10 as part of the Beta Branch Fic Swap challenge, in which one writer wrote a scene, and another writer wrote a story around it. :)  
_

_The title is from a quote from The Three Musketeers: "Love is the most selfish of all the passions."_

* * *

**That Most Selfish Passion**

Paris had been quiet in the weeks following the Cardinal's disgrace and Milady de Winter's banishment. So quiet, in fact, that Aramis the Musketeer had been driven to near distraction out of boredom. His comrades seemed to enjoy the peace and quiet, but they had not the cares that weighed so heavily on Aramis' soul. Not even Athos, not any more. Aramis tried to drown himself in the moment, smothering his anxieties with action as he had done many, many times before, only to find diversions were as few as his worries were many.

The announcement of the Queen's pregnancy had sent waves of joy across France. Bells were rung, more cheers greeted the royal carriage wherever it went, masses were said for her health and the health of the future Dauphin. Each of these little celebrations caused a fearful stab in Aramis' heart, for he knew the truth of the matter, and the implications for himself, for Athos, for Queen Anne, terrified him.

Serving at the palace had become a torment for Aramis. The King, excited by the prospect of his long awaited heir, was more jovial and pleasant than Aramis and his three comrades had ever seen him. He had to admit serving a cheerful King was far preferable to serving a moody one, when it came to standing guard or riding out on the hunt. Queen Anne herself was radiant, reveling in her own happiness and her husband's restored affections. Aramis should have been happy too, shouldn't he?

No matter how hard he tried, Aramis could not bring himself to share their joy. He knew something of the dangers of childbirth, and though Anne was far from her time, the mere idea was enough to put ice in the pit of his stomach and make his heart race with fear. If Anne herself had such fears, she hid them exquisitely. But even the small pleasure he had in her secret little smiles was drained by the cold prickle of Athos' eyes on the back of his neck.

(Aramis was never assigned to the palace without Athos anymore, and he knew full well why. He did wonder what Athos had told Treville to ensure _that_.)

Even without his fears for Anne and her (_their?_) child, the horrible clawing of guilt in his chest every time he saw the King; how Louis clearly delighted in her pregnancy, was enough to make him want to crawl into the deepest, darkest pit he could find and never emerge. Finally, Aramis understood why loving the Queen as he had was considered treason. He had betrayed King Louis, whom he had sworn to serve, protect, defend with body and sword, in the most intimate way. It was a sin, a terrible sin, he could never confess.

But Aramis was a soldier. His life and the life of his friend depended on his silence. He bore this suffering without a word, without a hint even to Athos, stoically standing guard or riding behind the carriage while guilt and fear tore at his soul.

Until Queen Anne fell ill.

The best physicians in all France were brought to treat her ailment, but they all feared for her life and the life of her child. The Queen was confined to her bed; the King became pale and drawn. More masses were said, praying for her life and the life of the future Dauphin.

Aramis became pale and drawn as well, consumed with a fear for Anne far deeper than was courtly and thus that he must not ever show. His body seemed to strike up an alliance with his mind, and Aramis found he no longer slept well, if at all. His disheveled appearance and obvious distraction drew Porthos' attention, but he seemed to assume Aramis had merely come off worse in some courtship or another. Aramis did not have the heart to inform him otherwise. Athos's keen eyes followed him constantly, watching for any signs of a slip that could endanger both their lives.

He took to moping around the garrison even in his off-duty hours, sick with fear and desperate for any news from the palace. All of his usual pleasures seemed base and hateful; even the rich widows of Paris had gone unsquired these past weeks as it felt disloyal to court them while Anne was ill and Aramis was the cause of her distress. At least at the garrison there was always the chance of pumping d'Artagnan and Porthos for information from the palace. Athos merely glared at him.

It all came to a head one hot afternoon when Aramis' frustration at being _de facto_ banned from the palace by virtue of the duty roster finally boiled over. Athos had dragged him bodily into the stable before Aramis could do any real harm by finding Treville. He seized Aramis by his jacket lapels and slammed him roughly into the wall.

"You are behaving like a lovesick boy!" Athos hissed at him. "You're going to get us both killed if you do not stop carrying on so!"

Aramis wrenched his coat free. "She might be dying, Athos!" he cried, forgetting the need for stealth in his anguish. Athos flinched at the volume of his voice and glanced over his shoulder warily, looking to see if anyone was within earshot. D'Artagnan and Porthos were at the table across the courtyard, eating and chatting with Jacques. Aramis turned on his heel to leave. He did not care anymore. He was going to find Treville, and damn the consequences. "I have to see her!"

Athos grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. "She is not _your_ wife, Aramis!" he shouted exasperatedly. "Nor would she even _be_ in this position if not for you!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Athos' eyes widened a little, as if he was taken aback by the harshness of what he had said. Something white-hot exploded behind Aramis' eyes and what precious little remained of his self-control evaporated. His right hand clenched and before either of them could react, he slammed his fist into Athos' jaw with all the strength he possessed.

Time slowed. Pain burst through his fingers. Athos' head snapped back with a violence that shocked Aramis, even in his temper. He flew backwards through the stable door and crumpled limply to the cobblestones.

"Oy!" Porthos yelled. Wood scraped against stone as he and d'Artagnan leapt to their feet.

Aramis stood dazedly over Athos' motionless body, panting and flexing the fingers of his right hand. Slowly, the fight began to drain out of him. D'Artagnan brushed past him and dropped to his knees beside Athos.

"Athos?" he called, lightly tapping their friend's face. A trickle of blood oozed from Athos' lip, and Aramis felt sick. He had done this; he had struck _Athos_.

Porthos crouched beside d'Artagnan. "Come on, let's get him up." Suddenly consumed with guilt, Aramis stepped closer to help but Porthos shoved him back. "Not you," he snapped at him, his eyes narrowed angrily. "You go cool off."

The disgust in his voice was a stab in his heart. Aramis swallowed hard and fled to the barracks.

It was quiet there, as most of their comrades were out in the city for duty or pleasure. He found himself in Porthos' little room, trembling with exhaustion and aching with worry for Anne and now Athos. He removed his hat and dropped it to the side as he raided Porthos' cupboard for a bottle of wine to help steady his nerves. He opened it and raised the bottle directly to his lips.

He swallowed much more of the heady crimson liquor than was advisable in his present state, wondering what was keeping Porthos. His insides still twisted anxiously and somehow despite his exhaustion he could not seem to be still. He began to pace, though there was little room to do so.

At last, Porthos appeared in the doorway. His hat was in his hand and he looked tired. "See you found the wine, then," he said aloud.

Aramis froze with the bottle halfway to his lips. "Athos?" he asked hastily.

Porthos studied him for a moment before he replied. "He's a hard head." He stepped over to retrieve the bottle from Aramis and took a long drink. "No real harm done."

A little weight lifted from Aramis' shoulders, and he sagged with relief. "Thank God."

"You going to tell me what that was about?" Porthos asked, his eyes boring questioningly into Aramis. He hunched in on himself and did not reply. "Athos's not even angry about it, funny enough," Porthos continued. "Said it was his own fault you hit him, when he woke."

He paused, waiting for Aramis to say something. Aramis swallowed and resumed his nervous pacing, unable to tolerate his friend's gaze. "Sorry about the wine," Aramis babbled, desperate to avoid further questions. Porthos scowled at him, and he ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I- I'll get you another bottle, I promise."

"Enough, Aramis."

Aramis abruptly stopped his pacing as Porthos' stern voice rolled like thunder between them. His hat lay on the small table over by the door, and in the absence of something else to fiddle with he'd returned to pacing. It was that or try to pull his hair out by the roots.

"Please."

His head jerked up, and it was a good thing he was as near the bed as he was since his knees gave out, plopping him unceremoniously down onto the straw mattress.

"Whatever's goin' on in that head of yours has to stop," Porthos said. "It's tearin' you apart and I am not going to watch you destroy yourself by sheer stupidity."

Aramis's eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he croaked with all the innocence he could muster.

Whatever calm Porthos had been clinging went rapidly out the proverbial window into the Paris night. "Hitting Athos. All the mad questions about the palace. Target practice the other day," Porthos exclaimed. "You _missed_, Aramis. You missed an easy shot and the only other time I have witnessed you do that was after we found you in the woods."

Aramis' shoulders slumped against the onslaught, and he thought about all the sleep he hadn't been getting lately. The muskets in the armory, however, gleamed like they were brand new.

Porthos crossed the distance between them and knelt between Aramis's slightly spread knees. He grasped both of Aramis's cold, trembling hands in his big, warm ones, and squeezed. "You have to stop doing this to yourself."

He was tired. Tired of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. Tired of pretending he and Athos still wouldn't find the end of a rope for this – for his indiscretion in the convent. But what he hadn't been able to bring himself to do was doom Porthos with them. Aramis didn't think he'd be able to live with himself should anything happen.

God, he was sick of it all. He was tired and sick, and he wanted nothing more than to curl into the warmth and protection Porthos was ready to offer him. Aramis licked dry lips, and tried to think of a tactful way to do it. There really wasn't any, and he'd always found the best way to begin his confession to a priest was to simply jump right in with both feet.

"Porthos," he said, proud of the way his voice didn't crack, "I slept with the queen."

Porthos reared back in shock; Aramis reversed their grip, clinging to Porthos for dear life in hopes he could finally air out what had become a festering wound.

"You – you _what_?"

"I slept with the queen," Aramis repeated, finally daring to look Porthos in the eye. "The child she carries is mine."

Porthos' face seemed to slam shut behind the blank expression he wore while playing cards. He shook free of Aramis' grip and rose to shut the door, checking down either side of the corridor first. He crossed his arms over his chest again, studying Aramis with serious dark eyes for a long moment before nudging his lone chair out from the wall with the toe of his boot and dropping into it heavily.

Aramis' heart pounded somewhere in his throat. "Say something," he choked.

Porthos leaned back in his chair, wood creaking with protest. He blew through his teeth. "D'Artagnan owes me twenty livres."

"_What?"_

Porthos shrugged. "We had a bet."

Aramis gaped at him. "That I'd sleep- That I'd commit _treason?_"

"Didn't think I'd win, did I?" Porthos exclaimed, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "But I never bet against a friend."

Aramis swallowed. Porthos was…amused? He seemed amused more than anything else, and he was not shouting. This was unexpected. He fumbled for at least an attempt at good humor. "I did not know d'Artagnan had twenty livres."

"He doesn't," Porthos said ruefully. He took a drink of wine and twisted the end of his mustache thoughtfully. "Pity. Shouldn't gamble with something you don't have, eh?"

He knew what Porthos was trying to do, and he appreciated it, truly, but he could not bring himself to be cheered. Not with the knowledge that his confession might have just doomed Porthos to hang alongside him and Athos.

Aramis looked up at him miserably and Porthos' smile slowly faded. "Look, what can I say that Athos already hasn't?" he said slowly. "I can call you an idiot if you'd like, but it's not as though you can take it back, is it?"

Aramis slumped into his palms. His child was in Anne of Austria's belly. There was no taking that back, not ever. "No," he said to the floor. "Not this time."

Porthos sighed heavily. "Aramis," he started, but Aramis cut him off.

"It's all my fault!" Aramis cried. All of the uncertainty, the fear, the guilt of the past several weeks was suddenly pouring out of him and he was too exhausted to try to staunch the flow. Wetness stung his eyes. "Athos was right. It's all my fault. I slept with the Queen, Porthos. I committed treason of the highest order, and we are all going to hang for it!"

"No one is going to hang!" Porthos said sharply. He reached out to touch Aramis' knee and Aramis glanced up. "Well, no one's going to hang long as you keep your wits about you," he added. "You and the Queen. Is it still going on?"

"No," Aramis said hastily. "Just…the once."

Porthos looked like he was going to say something glib, but Aramis' woebegone expression must have stopped him. He sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Who else knows?"

"Athos, and you," Aramis said. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Porthos raised the bottle to his lips and threw back his head to drink the last drops of the wine. He set the empty bottle to one side.

"If the Cardinal knew, you'd already be dead. The Queen, too," Porthos said matter-of-factly. Aramis looked up sharply and he nodded. "Aye. You weren't the only one committing treason."

Aramis had never thought of it like that. Anne's love was just as treasonous as his own. His heart twisted horribly at the thought of the risk she was taking. Porthos was watching him closely.

"Aramis," Porthos said in a low voice. "There's no proof you and the Queen were ever, uh, involved. Just your word, her word, and me and Athos'. We'll never betray you, and the Queen certainly won't condemn you or herself."

There was a little hiccup of hope in Aramis' stomach, under the fear and guilt that had dominated his life for what felt like eternity. "And the child?" he asked, choking a little on the dangerous word.

Porthos raised his eyebrows. "You really think, with everything Anne's got at stake, she hasn't thought of that?"

Aramis looked away. A curious little jealous knot burned to life somewhere near his heart. It was ridiculous, of course, for him to be jealous of Louis, as ridiculous as it was for him to have underestimated Anne (not to mention Porthos and Athos) so terribly. "I've been such a fool," he said miserably. His cheeks burned with shame.

Porthos slapped his knee fondly. "Yeah," he agreed. "You have. It'll all come out right, though. If you keep it together, that is."

Aramis managed a hollow chuckle. He was still worried, of course, but a light had been kindled in the depths of his darkness and perhaps, perhaps he would still find his way out. He still had to contrive a way to patch things up with Athos, but hopefully some sincere words and a decent vintage would solve that. "Porthos," he said gratefully, "Thank you."

Porthos grinned. "All for one, yeah?"

For the first time in days, Aramis managed a wan smile.


End file.
